


It's not a lie if...

by Artemis1000



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Community: dark_fest, Dark, Deception, Historical, Lies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has advanced beyond cruelty, so maybe it is nothing but pity that makes Spain whisper vows of love into England’s ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not a lie if...

**Author's Note:**

> Content Advice: Sexual situations. Mentions of past violence and rape.
> 
> Prompt: Any fandom, any characters, "Just tonight I won't leave, and I'll lie and you'll believe."

The first time they had made love, he had whispered, “I love you,” against the sweaty skin of his chest and pressed a kiss right over his fluttering heart.

The second time it had been, “You’re the only one for me.”

The third time Spain had closed his ears to the lies.

England spun his lies like the wordsmith he was, but his actions never failed to betray him. He would whisper sweet nothings right until he left as soon as the deed was done, leaving Spain both sated and empty.

That had been centuries ago, when they were empires ruling the world and England’s Queen Mary was married to Spain’s Filipe.

Funny how the times kept changing.

How they would rage, the empires they had once been, if they could see them now. Proud England reduced to rehashing past feuds with America and France and the great conquistador Spain…

His little Latin Americans still refused to talk to him beyond what diplomacy required. He smiled, of course, for he was Spain and he was all smiles and there was still too much of that conqueror in him to betray that they had the power to hurt him.

Unlike England, Spain didn’t feel nostalgic. The nightmares about blood and gold and the accusing eyes of his Latins ensured that he would never forget what the bad old days had been truly like.

“Isn’t it funny that you’re all that is left of my empire?” he would sometimes ask England. England didn’t seem to think so, for he wouldn’t laugh. Spain never failed to be disappointed. He thought it was funny indeed.

England didn’t laugh much anymore, neither the chilling laugh he had laughed when he first looked upon Spain after he had wiped out his Armada nor that light-hearted, almost endearing laugh that used to escape him when Spain discovered a particularly ticklish spot.

Nowadays all England did was grumble and when he thought that Spain didn’t notice, he would sigh wistfully.

“I pity you,” he had told Spain on that fateful August 8th of 1588. He might as well have spat on him.

Pity. Was that why he decided to do it? Maybe. He couldn’t quite say, nothing between England and him had ever been simple, but Spain was at heart a simple man.

It started out like any other tryst of theirs, with England being awkward and Spain pretending to be oblivious of his awkwardness. They met in London, so they drank tea from delicate little china cups and had a stilted conversation about the weather. Spain made little interested noises in the back of his throat as England showed him his latest embroidery project and reported dutifully on the growth of his tomatoes.

It was then, as England told him about the powdery mildew afflicting his rose bushes, that Spain stumbled upon a great and startling discovery: England was desperate for his company.

His little Romanito would have called him an idiot for not realizing it sooner, but in Spain’s defense, England was England and Spain was Spain. He didn’t cling to him or plead for affection like Spain had once done when their roles were reversed. You had to read between the lines to discover his desperation and England’s lines were all squiggly. Spain got confused just reading them, never mind reading between them.

There was something desperate to the way he would bring up yet another inane topic when Spain was ready to get on with what he was here for and something sad, yet almost endearing to the way he strived for some semblance of normalcy.

They had never been lovers.

Once you knew what to look for, the signs were obvious even to Spain. The way England clutched his tea cup. The fact that they had tea and scones and polite conversation at all when they both knew why Spain was there. The second pillow on England’s bed whenever he invited Spain over. There had only ever been a single pillow on his bed when they ended up at England’s house spontaneously.

He had known for decades that England was lonely; it had simply never occurred to Spain that this should be any business of his or that England would want it to be. Oops. Maybe his little Romano was right and he was too stupid to live.

Do you want me to stay the night? The words were already on the tip of his tongue when Spain swallowed them down again with a mouthful of cold, bitter tea. He wasn’t cruel. Not anymore, not even to England. So instead of asking him, Spain nibbled on a burnt scone and decided to put another one of Romano’s wisdoms to good use: Use your fucking brains for once, idiot!

It took two more stone-hard, coal-like scones for England to run out of gossip and gardening misadventures and for Spain to succeed in kissing him without making him tense up and pull away with a glower which just struck Spain as wounded now that he knew better.

For all that he personified such a cold, wet and altogether miserable nation, England was just as passionate as Spain himself. It never failed to startle Spain, that moment when England’s proper gentleman’s decorum shattered. He used to be unbeatable on stormy seas. These last decades – or had it been centuries already? – it had been Spain who held back his passion, who kissed, but never with all his heart, who touched, but only went through the motions.

Not tonight.

“Don’t,” he whispered when England pressed his lips firmly together to stifle his moans and twisted his head to the side. He cradled his cheek gently and turned his head back, he waited patiently until England’s eyes found his to glare at him. “Let me look into your beautiful eyes, cariño.”

They seized another up like enemies did across the battlefield.

England took a shaky breath as these lust-hazed green eyes, they were truly gorgeous, cleared with sudden understanding. They hardened immediately. “Wanker,” he growled. “You sadistic little son of a bitch!”

Spain opened his mouth to argue, but found no excuse. He closed it with a snap. He slid the hand on England’s cheek higher, buried it in his hair and pulled him closer, until their breath mingled and their lips brushed in the coyest hint of a kiss. England made a sound like a wounded animal just before he gnashed their mouths together, all clacking teeth and dribbling saliva and very little proper English decorum.

Spain retaliated with tender kisses to every inch of skin he bared. He spread England out on that bed with the silly floral print bedclothes and the two pillows and then he undressed him with all the loving tenderness you would lavish on a virgin maiden. Only that back when Spain used to deflower virgin maidens, he had been neither loving nor tender.

He closed his ears to the sound of England’s ragged breathing becoming choked and he closed his eyes to the tiny wet spots left behind on the pillow after England had pressed his face into it. Spain wasn’t cruel, not anymore. He opened his mouth to whisper sweet nothings and sweeter endearments instead, mingling Spanish and English and words he had picked up in faraway parts of the world.

“You are gorgeous, England.” Light, cheerful laughter, a splatter of sunshine to light up England’s drab bedroom. “I could eat you right up!”

“Screw you!”

He was no natural wordsmith like England and many, many years had passed since he had last had reason to try. Half of the oaths of love he showered England with were ridiculously sappy and the other half just plain ridiculous, quite a few involved tomatoes or turtles. He felt the slow melting of England’s resistance with his hands and lips. He didn’t surrender, that wouldn’t have been the England Spain knew and…

It was in the way his breath became calmer even as it sped up, the way his body stopped tensing under Spain’s hands to start leaning into them. It was in the way in which his own hands gripped Spain’s hair, no longer in that uncertain manner, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull him closer or push him away. He pulled him closer then, pulled him close to kiss him until they were both left gasping for air and then he pushed Spain’s head down, down, down and kept him there until he gave up his playful resistance.

Sharp and bitter on his tongue, England’s cursing in his ears, his scalp burning with the strength of England’s hold. Spain’s hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically in sync with his bopping head, a bruising grip that would leave finger-shaped marks on England’s thighs. And still, when he came up for air, did he murmur sweet words, promises of adoration and caring and all the things love was made of.

Spain could tell the exact moment England chose to believe.

He took a shuddery, choked breath and hauled Spain up to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. His hand cupped Spain’s cheek, fingertips fluttering over his temple in a delicate caress. England used to have a swordsman’s calloused hands, now they were soft and tender. “I love you,” he whispered, a shameful secret finally voiced aloud.

When Spain’s lackeys had been small and scared of the monsters under their beds, he would encourage them to share their fears with boss. Telling someone about the monsters takes away their magic powers, he would say, and then boss can slay them easily for you.

It turned out the opposite was true for adults. The monster hung in the air between them, leaving them powerless to do anything but stare mutely at another, both waiting for the other to make the first move, barely daring to breathe.

“I…” Spain’s voice broke, he coughed and was forced to try again. The pathetic croak had broken the spell, though, and he found he could raise his hand to mirror the motion and cup England’s cheek, to caress his slightly swollen lips with the pad of his thumb. “I love you, too.” The words were out before he knew it. Spain was left to blink in surprise.

England lowered his eyes, green covered by fluttering lashes. He ground his teeth together, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.

Spain brushed a kiss to the right eyelid, then to the left, then to England’s lips.

Hands on his shoulders, pressing him back into the mattress. These swollen lips trailing over his body, mapping the scars he had once been given by the very hands gripping his hips, keeping him from grinding against England until he was reduced to incoherent, pleading mewls. The wet heat of England’s mouth, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. Foreign words breathed against the sensitive skin on the insides of his thighs. Then Spain’s mouth found England’s again, his tongue snaked out to taste himself.

He fumbled around blindly for the small tube on the left side of the second drawer of England’s nightstand. England’s habits hadn’t changed, only the contents. Once, he used to find a vial of scented oil in place of the store-bought lube. Spain pouted slightly in distaste.

England laughed and kissed the pout away, then made it return with a snarky quip about Spain’s delicate sensibilities.

Hands and mouths picked up their explorations again. Spain made England laugh when he stuck out his tongue and licked the back of his knee. He made England gasp when he pushed slick fingers into his body, then curse as his body tensed without his permission. He kissed and caressed away the pain until England’s body relaxed and he snapped at him to, “Bloody get on with it already, you lazy wanker!”

Spain silenced his protests with another kiss. England’s eyes went adorably wide when he thrust into him and Spain himself had to stifle his groans, the desire to burrow himself deeper into that tight heat, to thrust uncaring of England’s pained apprehension, selfish as they had both been many times before.

Not this time.

He took his sweet time making love to England with all the passion he was known for and the tenderness befitting the vows of love he gasped and moaned. There was something soft in England’s gaze just before he surrendered himself to orgasm.

They fell back onto the sheets in a tangle of sweaty limbs and heaving chests.

England gave him a long, thoughtful look and then he moved to extricate his legs from Spain. Of course he did. He would turn around and curl up under the covers on the far edge of the bed, a silent statue as he waited for Spain to gather his clothes and leave. That was what he always did and Spain had never thought much of it, merely taken it as another sign of England’s cold, uncaring nature, another piece of evidence to show that England saw him as nothing but a body to take pleasure from. So eager to get rid off Spain once he had what he wanted that he couldn’t even bother to pretend for a single minute more than absolutely necessary that Spain wasn’t something far beneath his notice.

He wondered now and for a moment he was tempted to let the familiar scene play out, simply because he wanted to watch it with new eyes… or maybe because familiar was good and they had treaded these paths for so long that he still found it hard to keep straying from them.

“No!” Spain intertwined his legs once more with England’s and captured him gently in the circle of his arms.

England’s face wavered before it settled on a familiar scowl. Spain kissed it away and pulled him closer and went back to whispering sweet nothings because he was good at talking nonsense, everyone said he was good at that.

At some point, the comforting touches turned sensual once more. Spain offered himself to England, chest heaving, legs splayed out, unashamed. There was a moment of hesitation, of furrowed gigantic eyebrows, as if England couldn’t quite believe that Spain was quite that dedicated to the game he was playing. He gave himself a push and willingly lost himself once more.

Spain hadn’t counted on England being gentle.

When they were done, they cuddled and this time, England didn’t even try to move away.

England slept; he didn’t, not yet, too caught up in the novelty of the once British Empire snoring peacefully in his arms. He looked younger when he wasn’t frowning… except he was, wasn’t he? It was just the tiniest frown, but if you looked closely enough, you would discover that he frowned even in sleep. He laughed to himself and turned off the light.

Spain had stayed in bed until noon and had a nap until it was time to leave for the airport, but there was something hypnotic about England’s rhythmic breathing in the dark. Maybe it was just the comfort of not sleeping alone for once. Spain didn’t like sleeping alone, it was boring and cold and just all around unpleasant, except that sleeping could never be truly unpleasant, but sleeping alone came as close to it as sleeping could. He found himself lulled to sleep before he had finished contemplating just how unpleasant sleeping could ever get on a tomato scale of one to ten.

Tomatoes had been his last thought before falling asleep and they were his first thought upon waking.

Harsh, unrelenting rain was hammering against the windows… and his plants with their delicate little growing fruits were out there, unprotected by as much as a single sheet of plastic.

He sat up, eyes flaring open, a grumbling weight was dislodged from his chest, he caught sight of floral print and…

Right. England.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the nation himself grumbled. He stared at Spain as if he had found a two-headed monster in his bed.

Spain patted his neck, just in case he had, indeed, grown a second head.

“Useless,” England huffed and turned away in disgust.

Spain caught himself, smiled brightly and chirped, “good morning, England!” His grin gained another few notches, he was quite proud of himself for remembering English before he had even had his first tomato of the day.

England peered over his shoulder, he had barricaded himself on the very edge of the bed, and snarled at him. His eyebrows had transformed into a knot of fuzz. “Bugger off, Spain!”

Well… Spain closed his mouth again, at a loss. Whatever had happened last night, the pale morning light had washed it away.

He felt out of place, just like yesterday when they had been drinking bitter tea from china cups that were too small and delicate for his large farmer’s hands.

So he got up and got dressed and lingered because he could still feel his skin prickle with England’s touches and his kisses if he concentrated and he would have really liked a shower, but England just kept shooting him his most forbidding scowl every now and then and otherwise seemed determined to ignore that he existed. He was almost certain that there were rules to follow on the morning after you had seduced your ages-old enemy with vows of love. If he could just figure out…

“Get lost!” England snapped, but there was a waver underneath the righteous fury. “Get lost or I’m going to get my pistol and…”

“¡Sí, sí!” Spain raised his hands in mock surrender as he opened the bedroom door. He moved slowly, just in case.

The last he saw of England were his scowl and green eyes, hardening, but still shadowed with pain and a pinch of gratitude that struck him as oddly misplaced.

All the way home, Spain was left to wonder if his own eyes had mirrored it.

The end


End file.
